Epilogue: Nineteen Years Later
by machtpolitik
Summary: "The boy himself is too simple and too complex for us to make any final comment about him or his story. Perhaps the safest thing we can say about Holden is that he was born in the world not just strongly attracted to beauty but, almost, hopelessly impaled on it."


Well, I suppose you want to know all about the madcap stuff that's happened to me in the last few years. Trust me, there's plenty. I know how I said before that I wasn't going to tell any more of my goddam story. I know how I said that I just didn't _feel_ like it anymore. But goddammit, I'm not even going to _be_ here anymore tomorrow. I'll finally be out of this crumby place, and all I can say for sure is that I'm definitely not coming back. But I've got to tell _some_body, or else nobody'll ever know. I guess these words are all I've got.

Well, first things first, I guess. I should get this out of the way. I have a goddam con_fess_ion to make. I'm a flit. I guess the proper term they're using these days is homo_sex_ual. But I hate those goddam phonies who go and try to use big words to make themselves sound more pro_fess_ional, goddammit. I've met a lot of those phonies. It kills me, it really does. But I'm a flit. Holden the flit. Holden Caulfield the goddam flit. Has a nice ring to it. They should write that on my goddam grave. My parents would have a lot more than two hemorrhages apiece if I ever told them _this_. Oh boy. It'll be a pretty nasty goddam shock for _them_ if they ever find this goddam note. Nobody knows my goddam _se_cret, except for old Phoebe. But old Phoebe always knew I wasn't _normal_. _I_ always knew, too. I was _diff_erent somehow. I used to have this sort of nagging feeling in the back of my head. Always. Like there was some goddam part of me that didn't _fit_ somehow. Or some goddam part of me that I just couldn't _find_. I used to just try and push that goddam feeling _away_. But when I got to thinking about it, whenever I was out with a girl… something just seemed wrong. Wrong. I can't really de_scribe_ it, goddammit. I was reading over all the crap I wrote about what happened to me after I got chucked out of Pencey all those years ago. And that was when I realized. That night back with old Sunny at the goddam Edmont Hotel… it just seemed _wrong_ somehow. It didn't fit. I remember how I said I was supposed to feel pretty sexy after old Sunny took off her goddam green dress in that goddam hotel room. But if you really want to know the truth, I was _scared_. Dead scared. The entire situ_ation_ felt _wrong _to me. That little nagging feeling in the back of my head kind of just got stronger and stronger. And the closer old Sunny got to me, the more goddam _scared_ I felt. And I got to thinking about that little tiff I had with old Stradlater back at crumby old Pencey. I don't know why, but I sort of started to imagine old Stradlater in Sunny's place, pulling my goddam hound's-tooth jacket over his head and all. For some reason, that seemed to _fit_ better. I don't even _know_. And the more I thought about, the more I realized that I was a flit, I had to be. I already told you all about what a sexy bastard old Stradlater was. It's so hard for me to even _write_ these goddam words, goddammit. But it feels good to get this off my goddam chest. At least this goddam note proves I wasn't com_plete_ly clueless about who I really was.

But I haven't got the heart to tell everyone I'm a flit. I'm sick of this goddam world, so goddam _sick_ of it. It's really depressing. Because it's like the more you think about it, the more goddam sick you get. It's like a goddam dis_ease_ or something. At least for me, anyway. Sometimes I don't know how other people can even stand it. I've been stuck in this crumby place for thirty-five goddam years. And I don't mean goddam New York. I'm talking about the whole goddam world. I mean, with the _prej_udice and all. If I told everyone I was a flit, I'd probably be _ostra_cized from goddam society. _Ostra_cized. Old Spencer used that word once to describe me back at Pencey. Now that I think about it, not much's changed from when I was back at that crumby place. I wonder what old Spencer would say if he knew what I was about to do. He would probably shun me, too. Society's full of such goddam _phonies_. They'd probably look down on me for being a goddam flit. I _know_ they'd look down on me, the bastards. Even more than they do already. Like it's any fault of _mine_ I turned out the way I did. And I got to thinking. Thinking about the "Fuck you" engraved in the goddam bathroom stall at old Phoebe's primary school. I got to thinking, and I started to realize how many "Fuck you"s society sends out every goddam day. You're a flit? "Fuck you." You're a colored bastard? "Fuck you." You have a big nose or crooked teeth or whatever? You're not normal. You're not goddam _good_ enough. "Fuck you." Well, I'm done with that. I'm done with a world that can't even recognize you and accept you for who you _are_, goddammit. I guess in case you haven't realized yet… this is a goddam _suicide_ note. Like I said before, I'm not even going to _be_ here tomorrow, and boy am I glad I won't. This world really was a crumby place. But before I go, I do have a message to give out to anyone reading this, or just to the goddam world in general.

"Fuck you."

Sincerely,

Holden Caulfield


End file.
